


The Cot

by cl2y



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Male Solo, Masturbation, Memories, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 10:44:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12231252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cl2y/pseuds/cl2y
Summary: How long have you had this cot? It smells like sweat and stale liquor.





	The Cot

**Author's Note:**

> This doesn't contain any spoilers for Death of the Outsider, also I haven't yet finished it so it may conflict with something but I doubt it.

_How long have you had this cot? It smells like sweat and stale liquor._

That’s what Daud had said to Billie the first morning aboard the Dreadful Wale. He had been thinking about it all night, his body awake with tremors from the boxing club’s restraints, getting used to the swaying of the floor beneath him. He had recognised the smell. It took him a while, pulling through old memories of times years ago. Daud realised it was odd to know exactly what a man smelt like when he was red faced and sweating. The cot didn’t have that particular stench to it, the lust, the arousal, the heavy unmuted breaths. But it smelt like him.

The liquor was the first thing he recognised. Daud can remember his fondness for King Street Brandy, potent and an apparent acquired taste, he had been told the latter a multitude of times over the years. Still, he never quite got his tongue around the flavour unless it was in that man’s mouth. Then it became an unholy addiction.

Old Anton Sokolov; genius, extraordinaire, remarkably filthy between the sheets but nothing had ever said to imply otherwise. He had been fascinated by Daud’s marked hand, and once the desire to seek the knowledge of it wore off, not that it ever truly did, Sokolov began to wonder about its capabilities in other areas. Daud could traverse space in an instant, he could find items of high value just by glancing at them, and pluck them from across the room. The old genius asked far too many questions about it all, and he couldn’t quite answer them even if he had wanted to. Still the abilities came to in a pinch when the oil was too far away.

But he was surprisingly gentle with the void across the back of his hand. With tentative fingers trailing over the bold lines, the drag of sharpened nails crafted for art across his skin. A soft intrigue in the shape of fingertips. Sokolov would kiss the mark and contemplate whether the Outsider could feel it in the Void, and Daud couldn’t hide his perturbed expression about the question. He didn’t want the Outsider intruding on such moments of kindness, a desirable rarity to a killer like himself.

Billie had left him to recuperate on his own within the vessel, laying there on the cot that smelled of Anton Sokolov, with old memories of him swimming in his mind. He found an old article about Anton, making his way to Tyvia to open up a gallery of sorts, painting always made him happiest. Daud can remember the painting of himself done by those tentative fingers _; Daud and the Parabola of Lost Seasons_ , he never understood the title but artsy types were prone to poetry. That had all happened before anything intimate did, but the mumblings and the curses he spat trying to get him accurately made was endearing in hindsight. Anton had even painted his coat in a different colour, the red was too much of a contrast he said, but people stopped looking at men in red coats for a long time.

He wonders for a moment where that painting might be, with his thumb swiping across the sectioned image of Sokolov from the paper clipping. Did it matter, he wondered, was it old age and sentimentally making him wish the old fool kept the painting for himself. If at night he would lay awake staring up at the face of an old lover and question were the assassin might be. Perhaps Sokolov would think of other things just as Daud was doing now, remembering nights long gone where they lay together as lovers and nothing more.

Daud carefully places the article back in Billie’s room, assured she wouldn’t notice it had been moved. As far as he knew Sokolov could have told her all about them, but Billie hadn’t mentioned the genius so he dismissed the idea easily. Daud wasn’t exactly a man that Sokolov would brag about having certain intimacies with. Sleep overwhelms him easily enough, surrounded by the fading smell of Anton he dreams of times gone by. Sex hadn’t ever been a driving force for Daud, but the love that bloomed behind Anton’s eyes was something else. He’d say he would kill to see it again, but that didn’t mean anything coming from a man like him.

Times had changed, Daud had changed with them, and his mind wonders when he wakes about how the years had affected Sokolov. Would he still kiss him with a brandied tongue? Would his untrimmed nails still catch over bubbled scars? Would he still look at him with love under drooping eyelids? Daud huffs when he feels the warmth spread across his gut. Trapped and caged with old age setting in and never a moment of privacy had left him unthinking of taking care of himself in _that_ way. He figures that of course it would be Sokolov that would bring that part of him back to life.

Daud tries to picture him as he looks in the article. His hair still continued its fading journey to the back of his head, he no longer dyed the often tangled mess to stave off his age, and his beard had been cut back to a cleaner shape. Sokolov might have looked older physically but there was something in the silvergraph that made him look younger, as if he had shed some of his past mistakes and regained youth from it. He wonders if it’s happiness that makes him younger, whether or not Daud’s absence was the cause of that.

He had already pulled the belt from his waist to bring him some comfort as he rested, it gave him an ease of access to pull open his trousers and give himself enough room to fit his hand in them, though that had never been his intention. It probably isn’t something he should be doing the first day after being rescued, especially with their mission at hand. Yet he couldn’t stem the tide of images that was Anton Sokolov; genius inventor and the lover of the dreaded Knife of Dunwall.

Daud can remember the old man marvelling at the strength in his body, how much capability he had in his muscles alone. Years of training in stealth and combat gave him something worth looking at. Sokolov was all soft flesh and hard ribs, forgoing meals to ensure experiments and paintings could be done on time. Age wouldn’t have changed that. Daud takes himself in hand, thinking about how he used to drag his palms across his skeletal frame, the jut of his hips and the curve in his waist. The way Anton’s moans became warbling cries when he drank too much, the effort to conceal their actions all but lost. It wouldn’t have mattered to anyone but them in the end.

Sokolov was exceptional with his mouth, he had that acquired taste after all, and he was never shy of using it. His lips, tongue, and teeth, had probably graced every inch of Daud’s body over the years, forever tasting his skin and his sex. Anton had sank to his knees a few times, urging Daud’s fingers into his hair as he swallowed his cock with an elegance rarely found. He had spread Daud’s cheeks and entered him with oiled fingers in the same motion and the assassin had yelled within the pleasure.

The memory brings a jolt to his hips, one leg rising to bend at the knee and to urge space between his thighs. With a huff he pushes his trousers lower, grunting thankfully at the freedom it brings to his hands. His left hand is shoved under his head, gripping at his short hair whilst his other moves with his memories. Sokolov had been pressed up against the wall, paint drying across his fingers with an easel abandoned to one side. The wall had to be redone from all the smudged fingerprints but the money had been worth it. Daud had chewed at his neck like a man starved, kissing, biting, animalistic in his moans as he spread the other man and fucked him to the tune of their clinking belts.

Daud’s moans slip from him, Anton’s name a whisper away from his lips. He had moaned it all those years ago, _Anton, not Sokolov, call me Anton_ , Daud had stuck to his name like a heretic’s prayer. Practiced over and over until it became a mantra of lust for both of them. Daud had always just been Daud, a few endearments from a Tyvian tongue but mostly _Daud_. Though he guessed that Anton had figured out that he liked that best, he hadn’t needed to be instructed.

He rolls his hips into his hand lazily, his palm wet with himself, his arm doing most of the work. Daud can feel the twinges in his thighs that Anton had loved, the twitch that came to his belly as he fell deeper into arousal. Sokolov could pull him apart so easily it should have worried the assassin, but it only drove him towards him more.

Daud inhales deeply through his nose, pressing deep into the cot to take it all in, imagining the other man there with him. He liked watching Sokolov pull himself apart, there was always something more appealing watching him in pleasure than feeling it himself. There was a time where they lay side by side in bed, listening to each other bring themselves to completion, with lust-fuelled sideways glances, a private show for both of them. Daud arches at the memory, focusing solely on the idea of being here with Sokolov. If only he could reach out and tangle himself against the inventor, abandoning the show in favour of feeling Sokolov’s pleasure in his own. He grunts loudly, spilling himself into his cupped hand, shuddering as his orgasm rolls over him.

It’s a sorry reminder, and one Daud is all too familiar with, when he is pulled from his memories and back onto the swaying bed aboard the Dreadful Wale. He cleans himself quickly and turns away from the large painting of the Outsider, that bastard has seen too much. If Daud can make it through killing him, he’ll drop in on old Anton Sokolov, and reminisce on old times. He wants to taste that brandied tongue once more, to feel the curve of ribs against his palms, and to hear the cries of a genius between his thighs.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
